


Be a Monster for Me

by Kitsu



Series: Three Times' a Habit [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Fight Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Shenanigans, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsu/pseuds/Kitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flint turns to the bottle after Charles Town, haunted by his ghosts, and Vane isn't having it. He decides to give Flint something to keep him anchored in the present.</p><p>Set during and after XVIII.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be a Monster for Me

**Author's Note:**

> If I can't read it, I write it. Set during and after XVIII. Dialogue in the first half brazenly stolen from the episode. 
> 
> In advance, apologies! Been a while (as in months, years) since I wrote anything, but these two... They pulled on my villain-fangirl-strings. Be warned, what follows is most likely full of run-on sentences of doom (that's just how I roll), purple prose and bad charaterisation. But hey, smut!

\-----

Flint watched Vane stand, listened to him speak up in Flint’s so-called ‘defence’, heard him weave together words that slowly started instilling the fear of God, death, and most of all; pirates, in the gathered crowd.

He still couldn’t figure it out - why Vane, of all people, had decided to come to his defence when he could just as easily have sailed the Spanish Man o’ War out of Charles Town harbour leaving Flint none the wiser - and quite dead. Charles _fucking_ Vane had risked his own hide to deliver the girl’s diary, and why?  Flint reckoned he had probably figured amongst the top three people on Vane’s list of people to kill sooner than later for quite a while, and most likely still did. “Trophy”, he’d said. Not bloody likely. There had to be some other reason behind his actions.

Still, he’d come, and Flint figured he should at least be grateful, no matter Vane’s reasoning. Dying had been low on his list of priorities when he’d entered Charles Town, though definitely a viable option. One that, for now at least, seemed to have been postponed. Given this new chance at life, the exigency of needing to fulfill _her_ last words tore at his heart. He _needed_ to set the town alight, needed to see it burn, see it crumble.

He felt the panic and chaos begin to rise amongst the throng of judges, jury, onlookers and hecklers as Vane raised his chained hands, signalling some unseen force. Watched him as cannons thundered, ripping the the square to shreds.

Vane moved then, and Flint did too. Moved, fought, killed, did what needed to be done. What needed to be done for _her_. For Thomas. “Her word will be the last word for this place.”

“Move!” Vane was beside him, urging him on.

They ran, slaughtering their way through wave upon wave of soldiers, townspeople, whoever were standing in their way. Flint watched Vane’s back, as Vane watched his. Taking turns leading, they made their way to the shore, where they found a launch and pushed it into the water. Rowing as hard as two men could, they stared down the barrel of the cannon being aimed their way, ducking and dodging the rounds whistling past their heads. Then suddenly a bosun’s whistle sounded from within the thick gun-smoke twirling across the water’s surface, and flashes of fire betrayed the Man o’ War’s bearing within it, ahead of utterly destroying the artillery position shoreside.

Climbing over the gunwale together, they were greeted by Billy and his gun, squarely aimed at Vane. Flint had one look around, then ordered Vane’s crew released, declaring that no pirate would be held prisoner on his ship, after that day. It was the least of courtesies he could afford Vane. After ordering Vane to keep his men in line, he turned his attention to more pressing matters.

Charles Town had to be destroyed, had to feel the cold, burning fury racking him. It had to burn, to be razed to the ground. He would see it become a funeral pyre for _her_. If that made him the villain of the story, so be it. James McGraw was gone, along with everything and everyone he loved and cherished. Only the monster was left, only Flint, with a heart of stone and a soul of pitch black, smoldering hellfire.

“Take us back towards the sand bar, southwest corner of the bay. We’ll start from there.” His voice sounded flat, dead. ”Ready the guns. Full complement!”

“What’s the target, Captain?” Billy urged.

“Whatever’s left.” Staring at the shore, he clenched his jaw, waiting momentarily. At a nod from her Captain, the cannons of the Spanish Man o’ War were let loose. Flint watched spires crumble, buildings explode and collapse, dark clouds of smoke trailing towards the blue sky, before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving it all behind.

\---

It had all gone to hell. Everything. Resting his head in his hands, he stared down into the rum-filled glass placed in front of him. They were sailing again, three days in, heading home by way of Tortuga.  He was alive, but but none of those he’d cared for were, not any longer. The crew mostly feared, disliked or outright hated him. The one person on his crew he’d felt he could talk things through with lately had gone through hell while he’d been ashore, trying to achieve some lofty ideal, some stupid hope he should have abandoned the day he left England. Silver was lying in the window seat behind him, third day unconscious, one leg short of what he had been when Flint left ship. He’d lost it to Vane’s fucking quartermaster, a treacherous fuck three days dead - luckily for the man. If he hadn’t been, Flint’d gone on another rampage himself, torn him to pieces with his bare hands.

Backtracking, Flint concluded that he was pretty sure he didn’t even like himself, didn’t like none of what he’d become. All the things he’d thought he’d done for Nassau had brought nothing but  misery, leaving all his hopes and dreams broken, crushed, locked away in some deep, dark pit of his heart. He’d become the monster in his own story. The monster everyone fucking deserved. Picking up the glass, he threw it all back in go and sank back in his seat, balancing the empty vessel on the armrest.

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Thomas was long dead and now _she_ was dead too. All he had left were ghosts, torturing him in his sleep. He wasn’t much of a drinker compared to others of his profession, but the last day or so was a jumbled blur, one bottle after another having been emptied. He hadn’t been able to sleep properly since Charles Town, only dozing off momentarily in his chair until some horrid dream hurtled him awake, sweating and feeling like he was about to choke. He blamed himself for everything. Himself… And Vane.

 _Goddamned fucking_ Vane and his _goddamned, godforsaken fucking_ crew with their wretched ship-stealing plans that had left a good part of his own crew dead, the other part bruised, battered, limping and aching; some even still balancing on the verge of shuffling off this mortal coil. John Silver… Well, he still hung on, but he’d barely shifted since Billy had carried him into the Captain’s quarters, on Flint’s order. He’d been lying deathly still on Dr. Howell’s table those few days ago, after having his leg cut off, white as a sheet and cold as a corpse. Seeing the man he’d been close to being able to call an ally like that, he’d figured he’d at least try to make him comfortable until he woke...or not. So Flint stayed in the Captain’s quarters, watching over Silver, a well enough excuse to avoid everyone else onboard as far as he could. The only people he’d seen since sailing out of Charles Town Harbour was Dr. Howell, Billy and the very much unconscious Silver.

Groping for the bottle of rum he’d left on the table, he fumbled, tipping the glass off the armrest, smashing it to the floor. He couldn’t care less, simply grabbing the bottle by the neck and taking a decent swig from it. He barely heard the rapping on his door, and when he finally did he blatantly ignored it. If it was Billy, he’d just enter anyway, most certainly to complain about something. Surely, the door opened, however, it wasn’t Billy. It was Vane. _Goddamn_ Charles Vane. 

“What?” Flint grumbled, trying to will him away.

Vane closed the door behind him, and stalked into the room, closing the gap between the door and the desk. Placing his hands on the smooth surface, he leaned over it, looming over Flint in his chair. “The fuck, Flint?” Vane growled. “This ain’t like you. Get a fucking grip.”

“Shut it. Still my ship,” Flint lifted a leg, placed a foot on the edge of the table, and shoved. It hit Vane squarely across the thighs, knocking him off balance. He stumbled back, falling on his arse, cursing loudly.

“You’re fucking dead, Flint,” Vane hissed, lunging to his feet and across the displaced desk.

Breaking the rum-bottle against the armrest, leaving another scattering of broken glass around his chair. Flint leapt to his feet, jabbing the jagged edge up under Vane’s chin. “I wish,” he slurred. “I fucking wish.”

Stopping in his tracks, Vane smacked his mouth shut. Even drunk Flint was fucking dangerous. Even more so than usual, Vane decided. There was something in his eyes, something wrong. Indifferent, almost dead.

As quickly as he’d gotten up, Flint fell back down into his chair, glass shattering further beneath his boots. “The hell do you want, Vane?”

“You need to show your fucking face on deck. Men are starting to think you’re dead - that perhaps Billy Bones offed you in your drunken stupor, or you drank yourself to death. I can keep my men in line, but even your people are grumbling.” Vane ended up leaning against the desk he’d just jumped, due to lack of better options. “I didn’t save your damn hide just for you to drink yourself to death. Not much of a trophy, that.” He crossed his arms over his chest, icy blue eyes staring hard into Flint. Leaning his weight on one foot, he kicked the bottle from Flint’s hand with the other, his grip on it having gone slack in a moment of inattention. Less dangerous unarmed, he hoped.

“Don’t care,” Flint mumbled, eyes taking on a hazy, distant look again. His ghosts were back, nagging at the edge of his mind. Calling him.

“To hell with this, “ Vane hissed, leaning in. Grasping Flint’s chin, he demanded his attention. “You’ve recently become a legend, something to be feared by England herself, the man, the myth, who single-handedly took out Charles Town. You’re no drunken coward hiding in his quarters, sulking over some dead woman of yours.”

Flint looked at him, without really looking, mind somewhere else. “Wasn’t my woman. Not really. We both loved…” Somehow he managed to stop himself in his tracks and shook his head as if to clear his mind.

“Loved who? What?” Vane leaned even closer, staring harder into Flint’s eyes. “Who turned you this weak?” He was leaning so close he was close to losing his balance, so he placed his hands on the armrests, towering over Flint. “Nassau is going to need a strong defender when the war surely comes. Right now that ain’t you. It needs to be.”

Feeling Vane’s hot breath against his cheek, Flint looked up, eyes clearing somewhat. “Only thing I wanted was to walk away from the sea some day, to find some peace. But they’re gone, both of them. I have nothing left, nothing to live for. Nassau… Nassau is doomed, there is nothing more I can do. England will retaliate, and I can’t stop it.”

“Hells, Flint! Of course there is - be the fucking legend. Be Captain Flint, scourge of the New World and protector of Nassau’s shores. Be larger than life, be the monster good people in England tell their children about. Be their worst fucking nightmare.”

Unblinking, Flint suddenly stared back with intent, his eyes a clear green. “Why do you suddenly care whether I live or die? Few weeks ago you’d like nothing better than to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“I like the status quo of the world. There is nothing but pirate in me - no farmer, no craftsman. This is my life until the day someone strings me up. I like Nassau as is, in lack of better options. _You_ can keep it that way.” Vane suddenly grinned, his usual old smirk. “Besides, there’s still nothing I’d like better than slitting your throat, but I think Billy might take offence and shoot me. He’s been eyeing me menacingly since we clambered on board. Had to sneak in here, I never get a moment to myself out there.”

That earned him a slight chuckle from Flint, who then pulled himself a bit further up in his chair, leaving their faces too close together for comfort.

Vane didn’t move. He figured bluntness might be the right tactic to get Flint til spill his secrets, to shake him clear out of his stupor. “So… Who was he? The one you loved?”

Flint startled, eyes widening. “What?”

“Well, if _she_ wasn’t your woman, and you both loved the same someone… That leaves one out of two possibilities. And since you’re glaring at me like you want me to sink to the deepest pit of the ocean right now, I’m going to entertain the possibility that my guess was the right one. Who was he?” 

Flint swallowed hard, too close to Vane, too uncomfortable under his scrutiny, his searching eyes. Considering his situation, he came to a conclusion: It didn’t matter if Vane knew. It really didn’t. He had nothing more to lose.

“Miranda’s husband. Thomas. It was a long time ago, and now they’re both dead and… Gone.” Neither had gotten a proper burial, he realised. _Fuck_. He drifted off again, almost forgetting about Vane looming over him.

“Fuck, Flint. You need something to turn you to the present, something to ground you. An anchor. Rum and ghosts won’t do you, nor me, any good.” Peering over Flint’s shoulder, Vane studied Silver for a moment. Kid hadn’t stirred all the time he’d been in the room, not even a twitch. He wouldn’t mind…

Slowly, Vane stood up straight and stretched. He walked over to the the entrance, locking the door. Some privacy was needed for what came next - he’d have to either beat some sense into Flint, or, well… Do something entirely different.

Walking back, he placed himself in front of Flint again. “Get up,” he demanded. “Or I’ll haul you right outta that chair. You’re in no state to argue.”

Flint _wanted_ to argue, but there was stubbornness in Vane’s eyes. Something told him he better comply, or something would end up hurting in the end. He didn’t have his bottle, and he’d left his blades in his belt, lying on the desk he’d kicked away. Staggering slightly, he pushed himself up from the chair until he stood tall before Vane. “What now?”

“This.” Vane grabbed two fistfuls of Flint’s shirt, pulling him close, pressing dry, slightly chapped lips to Flint’s. It was a quick-fire decision, more instinct than conscious thought.

Flint was slow to react, his mind going blank with confusion. He had not expected that - and didn’t know how to counter it - until he simply pulled back and punched Vane in the jaw. Hard. That earned him a wicked smirk, lasting about two seconds before Vane pounced. Being drunk and somewhat unsettled, Flint wasn’t hard to topple. He found himself prone on the deck a short distance away from the chair and the scattered shards of glass, with Vane sitting across his hips, pressing down. His hands were pinned to the deck by his head, and Vane’s face was all too close to his, the scent of tobacco mingled with the sea, sweat and blood invaded his senses. Vane’s hair hung like a curtain around them both, obscuring Vane’s features. Flint could still make out that infuriating grin.

“This is what happens when you let yourself become weak, Captain Flint.” There was a hint of laughter in Vane’s voice and nothing could have grinded Flint more at that moment. The fucker was laughing at him. Pulling himself together, he braced against the floor and kicked off with one leg, catching Vane out. In a flurry of arms and legs, their positions were turned. Jabbing at Vane, Flint caught him across the jaw with his knuckles, splitting the corner of his mouth, drawing blood.

Vane licked his lips, tasting the irony tang. “S’pose I deserved that. But then again, got you reacting to something, didn’t it.” Still feeling the need to trigger Flint, to make him react, he jerked his hips up, bucking against Flint, who was firmly placed across his hips now.

Flint’s kneejerk reaction was to punch Vane again, to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face - but then he realised; Vane was hard against him. Fucking hard. And he wasn’t fighting Flint, simply lying under him, squirming slightly His hair was spread around his head like a filthy, dirty halo, icy eyes laughing, taunting. And he was hard.

Not surprisingly, Vane liked to play rough. More surprisingly, with men as well as the majority of Nassau’s whores.

Something in Flint’s mind gave, and the only coherent thought he could muster was “To hell with everything…” Vane was someone familiar, something he knew how to deal with - their endless goading of each other a constant in his world.

Grabbing a fistful of hair, he held Vane in place. Leaning in, he retaliated, pressing his lips against Vane’s, licking, biting, coaxing. Vane answered in full immediately, his hands pulling at Flint’s shirt, tugging it loose from his breeches and up over his head. Flint shrugged out of the garment, barely stopping his assault on Vane’s lips to slip it over his head.

They were fairly matched in size and strength, and if any of them wanted they could reverse their positions. However, for the time being, Vane was quite content where he was. He bucked against Flint again, noticing that he was far from unaffected. At Vane’s movement, Flint ground down, friction intense, inciting, but far from enough. Vane’s fingers deftly did away with fastenings, pulled at fabric, just enough for him to be able to pull them both free of their constraints. A soft groan escaped him when skin touched skin. Wrapping his hands around them both, he stroked. Flint pushed against him, following his pace, surprised to be enjoying the touch of another’s hand on his cock. It had been too long - sex with her had always been cold, almost clinical. This was not. It was hot, wild, rough, reckless. Just right - for now.

He dropped his head lower, cradling in the nook of Vane’s neck, teeth scraping against sun-roughened skin. It tasted of salt and sweat. They probably both did. There was nothing clean nor pure about what they were doing. It was dirty, filthy, an all-consuming lust. Vane’s hands were deft, nimble, stroking just right. Flint felt lust twist along his spine, pool in the pit of his stomach, coiling hard, until something gave. Biting down on Vane’s clavicle, he groaned as release rushed him and he spilled across Vane’s hands and stomach. He was barely aware of the man beneath him, though soon reality seeped in at the edges of his consciousness.

Vane still had his hand on his cock, as he studied Flint, splayed on top of him. He was still hard, tugging lightly at his cock. “A little help?” he growled softly.

Flint breathed hard, uncertain of how to proceed. Yet again, he threw every caution to the wind. Sliding down along Vane’s hard, muscular body, he positioned himself between Vane’s legs, inhaling his scent. Wrapping his fingers around the base of Vane’s cock, he licked his lips quickly, before enfolding the head of Vane’s cock with those same lips. Pressing his tongue against the underside, he moved, sucked, stroking with his hand to the same cadence. Vane’s hand came the rest in his now loose, rumpled hair, not pulling, simply hovering. Flint came to realise he didn’t mind a little roughness, and placed his free hand over Vane’s, urging him to take hold, to claim. Vane didn’t hesitate, twining his fingers in the golden, red strands. Flint groaned around the cock in his mouth. Fuck, it had been too long. 

Vane was tensing under him, arching up, breath hitching in his throat, fingers pulling at hair, digging into floorboards. His eyes closed shut and his mouth fell open in a silent groan as he came in Flint’s mouth,  before collapsing against the deck beneath him, breathless.

“Oh, fuck,” was all he could breath, not sure if he’d crossed some invisible line. Opening one eye slowly, he peered down at Flint - who, _thank God_ , didn’t look more pissed off than usual. Eyes shone green, maybe softer than usual, maybe not. Sated perhaps, but more vigilant than they’d been since Vane entered the room. Vane opened his other eye and untangled his hands from Flint’s hair. He didn’t feel like tempting fate even further.

Flint sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees in front of him. His gaze quickly became a glare, becoming him better than his drunken, glazed over eyes from just a short while earlier. _This_ Vane could deal with.

“This never happened,” Flint growled. “No one knows.”

“Who the fuck would care?” Vane stretched like a cat and yawned. “Remember who the people you surround yourself with are - misfits and miscreants. People who doesn’t fit in amongst the ‘gentlepeople’ of ordered society. Half our respective crews are shagging each other, if not the dairy goat.” He chuckled. “They might comment on your bad taste in bed partners, and then they’d forget just as quickly. But as you wish. My lips are sealed. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you want a repeat. I could put my lips to good use.” Laughing, he rolled to his knees and got up. “And if someone asks what the racket just now were, just show them the broken glass and displaced furniture, and tell them I tried to beat some sense into you.” Straightening his clothes, he strolled to the door, unlocking it. “‘Till next time.”

The sound of Flint’s profanities followed him, telling him Flint at least cared enough to run his mouth. It was an improvement.

**Author's Note:**

> Seems like there is a part two in the making. I blame the timeskip at the start of S3, giving me the opportunity.


End file.
